


after the wedding

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Heavy Angst, M/M, Sad, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-06-10 12:15:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6956101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>we always cry at weddings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	after the wedding

His fists were bloody by the time his breath came back to him. Choking on your own breath is a lot like dying in a hospital, yet Sherlock Holmes was accomplishing this impossible feat too. Blood ran through the rivets in his hands and his fingers trembled. For a while, he stood there staring at the contrast of the red ink staining his stark white hands. His fingers were long and bony, each piece of marrow visible despite the thin sheet of skin covering them. They were a violinist’s fingers, able to pluck and strum each string with ease. They were a scientist’s fingers, precision folded into the wrinkles.  
He never wanted to chop them off more. Not for malicious intent; he loved his fingers with unreserved passion. He was dependent on his fingers for accuracy, for delicacy, for strength. Sherlock Holmes wanted to store his fingers, preserved, in a display box. He wanted to label his fingers with a small, yellow, index card and write “Sherlock Holmes, May 2014,” lovingly, in black ink and block letters.  
Sherlock dared to look up into the bathroom mirror. The thing that faced him back was broken. His eyes were bloodshot and his hair was greasy and in knots. The blood continued to run from his hands onto his nicest suit and pants, splatters of red painting the white shirt. His buttons were thrown open and had popped off in his bout of anger. Sherlock could easily deduce himself: Hasn’t eaten in four days, not slept in three, same shirt from yesterday, has started smoking despite previous attempts not to begin again.  
His hands had somehow made their way to the sink and the blood continued running. The dent he had made on the right hand side in the striped wall stared at him mockingly for losing his composure.  
I should be high, he thought to himself, and the wall grew a grin from corner to corner. Those beautiful hands stopped their bleeding but the wet turned to dry and caked.  
I touched him with these, he thought to himself and considered acting upon his ache again. But his anger turned into weight and Sherlock Holmes just wanted it to be black.  
He left the bathroom and entered his silent, dark flat, the night soaking in from the outside. His hands, still covered in flaking blood, shook as he searched for his chair in the heavy air. Sherlock fell into it, a shredded man, and sobbed for someone who tore out his insides.  
On his counter in the empty flat sat a small invitation in small letters, “Doctor John Hamish Watson and Miss Mary Elizabeth Morstan request the pleasure of your company…”


End file.
